


Pegged

by AsbestosMouth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Because of Reasons, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Oathkeeper is a dildo y0, PORNY PORNY PORN PORN, Pegging, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 17:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16559822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsbestosMouth/pseuds/AsbestosMouth
Summary: Jaime Lannister doesn't think he has any kinks. Until, of course, he sees Brienne pin Podrick during training. All he can think about is Brienne doing the same to him. But, hang on? Where did the fantasy of the strap-on come from and why in the Seven Hells can't he stop thinking about Brienne wielding Oathkeeper, the sapphire blue dildo he's been obsessing about?Jaime might be screwed. Literally.





	Pegged

********************************************************************

Jaime Lannister never really thought of himself as having a kinky side. 

Sure, he likes silky underwear (not on him, though sometimes he wonders a little if it feels as nice to put on as it does to feel on the four times Brienne’s agreed to wear it for him), and trying different positions - especially now as he’s lost his hand and missionary can be a little awkward. Slightly sweaty post-workout skin and muscular thighs. Random acts of snogging where they might be discovered. Brienne in general, but could she even be a kink? A matter of taste, sure, but could a woman be a kink in herself?

No. Compared to many people (Oberyn etc.) Jaime runs toward the almost hopelessly vanilla.

They’ve been properly going out for three weeks when it happens. There Jaime is, quite happily sauntering along in life without any sort of kink in his mind whatsoever, when it happens.

He’s kinkless until Brienne hip-checks Pod, throws him over her shoulder with a tremendously impressive amount of ease, falls to the mat and pins him between her legs.

He’s always had a slight problem with embarrassing erections, but Brienne truly brings out the hard on devil in his misbehaving member.

She’s six foot three of muscle, sinew, and decency, wrapped in the most incredibly stubborn and honourable wenchy package. Jaime loves her. Of course he’s going to rock a massive erection when she’s even in his general vicinity. Trying to keep them to appropriate moments mostly works, but seeing her sweaty and panting, Pod laid out under her like an offering to the Gods of close combat fighting? Imagining himself as Pod, all spread out like a buffet for his warrior wench?

It’s then Jaime realises that he might, indeed, have a kink.

He makes his excuses, goes home, wanks awkwardly in the shower as his left hand hasn’t got the dexterity of his missing right, and comes mind-meltingly hard at the thought of being the one squashed erotically under Brienne, legs over her shoulders and Jaime begging for her to take him hard and fast with her coc-...

Hang on?

Rewind.

He tries to process when he’s out of the bathroom and drip drying on his bed.

Jaime isn’t gay, but he’s experimented, like most boys sent to public school who happen to be attractive and dashingly good at sport. His homosexual experiences tend towards other boys giving him handjobs, or head in the showers, and the moment he discovered girls (Cersei, how stupid was that? So bloody ridiculous) he never even thought about it again. Apart from Brienne, all long and solid and able to overpower him, complete with a hard cock between her muscled thighs.

Shit.

Jaime Jr. twitches with interest.

He panics and grabs his phone, has a crisis of sexuality for the little while it takes for Bronn to text him back with a message mostly made of smirking emotes and swearing. According to the leather clad one it’s perfectly normal for a bloke to be interested in being fucked, it feels amazing because if it wasn’t supposed to happen why did the Seven invent the prostate, if he wants to have a go then Bronn’s up for doing Jaime, and has he heard of strap ons?

Tyrion - little brother’s down the pub with Bronn because that’s where they always are, which means they’re with Varys, so they’re probably in a corner, really drunk, and talking about Jaime being buggered with varying degrees of fascination - sends a series of mocking texts calling into question Jaime’s very manliness. Not because of the buggering, no, but because he’s not secure enough to stop freaking out and deal with his desire like the grown up thirty eight year old that he actually is.

Pragmatic Varys merely sends links to a selection of various sextoy websites. All the strap ons are in that very peculiar shade of blue, the same colour as Brienne’s gorgeous eyes. A few moments later another text comes through with an impressive do and don’t guide to anal sex and ‘pegging.’

And, for the love of the Stranger, do NOT use oil based lube on silicone

Condoms are excellent if one wants easier clean up

Use too much lube to start with, darling. Slather it over B’s lovely cock

Slow and steady wins the race

Can recommend some other toys if you’re wanting, sweetling ;X 

He asks Tyrion how the Hells Varys knows so much about pegging since he’s always with someone who has a cock of their own, and little brother says something about double penetration which means Jaime merely deletes the message before reading the rest of it, sprawling back on the bed and staring at the cream painted ceiling.

 

********************************************************************

 

A few months later they meet for coffee, as usual, because it’s a Friday.

Jaime’s been trying to get up the courage to ask Brienne to move in with him. It’s idiotic that she maintains her tiny flat half a mile away when he’s living in a massive townhouse all on his own. She has this thing about space, and needing independence, which Jaime supposes makes Brienne herself, but it frustrates him a little. After practically living with her as she helped him get over a) Cersei and b) the loss of his hand, he admits to being a little lonely half the time. 

Tormund lurking hopefully doesn’t help. 

Tormund can lift more than Jaime and, admittedly, and this hurts so much after all the cultivation, trimming, oiling, pampering, has a more magnificent beard. Out of the two of them Jaime was the better fighter, but six foot five of wildly cackling ginger Wildling can be confusing to even the cleverest of men. 

He also has two hands. Bastard.

Jaime’s hair is superior, he certainly smells fresher, has far more impressive taste in clothes and other things of import. He’s also more handsome, possesses wit rather than crude lechery, and can be taken home to family. Tormund merely charges about dressed in flannel, like an overly excited Highland bull. 

Not that Selwyn liked Jaime. Not to start with. The reputation gets around, and with a man like Lord Tarth with his only child? Knowing Selwyn, rugby obsessive and all around ex-army Brigadier-General hard nut to crack, he’d adore Tormund. They could talk about sheep and whatever country people obsess about. Tractors. Vegetables in the shape of massive cocks.

Which brings him neatly back to Brienne wielding her strap-on.

Not that he’s been quietly obsessing over this for the last few months. 

In his head Jaime’s named it Oathkeeper. Someone named a sword it once, and he always thought if Brienne had such a weapon (big, thick, a good handful and a half, oh shit, he’s getting hard again) that would be a suitable title.

Brienne. Brienne, Brienne, Brienne.

Brienne loves Jaime. She does. She said it, and everything. But somewhere, just at the back of his mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Tywin whispers. She pities you, it murmurs, dripping poison. You’re like one of those kittens she rescues, not the fierce lion you pretend to be. For all your posturing and sharpness and sarcasm, Jaime, you’re a mere eggshell wrapped about a battered core. Let her be with someone who can give everything, rather than a selfish damaged manboy with very little brain.

Their cafe - they don’t go there with anyone else as Brienne is good friends with Renly and Loras, who own it, so they get staff discount - is warm and cosy and plushly comfortable in the late November sleet. Sevenmas lights twinkle, turning Brienne’s cheeks yellow and red and green in turn, her hair from pale blond to copper. 

These days they don’t even have to talk much, just sit and bask in being close. Every so often their knees brush, or they give each other the secret smiles that are meant only for each other. A bubble surrounds them in this cafe, in this little secret den of theirs. Outside the world carries on, marching forward inexorably to the tune of the people who make it move - the Varyses of the world - but when he and Brienne are together, crammed into their booth made for people half a foot shorter and far more hobbit-like, nothing can puncture the glistening rainbow-shining protection that encapsulates them.

Apart from the coffee house staff. Of course.

The small girl barista thunks their coffee down with her usual rather angry air. She’s one of Brienne’s pupils in her fencing class, and is shagging one of Clegane’s lads, the one that they think might be Bobby B’s kid but no one really wants to find out.

“Thank you, Arya.” Brienne’s always lovely to service people. Cersei wasn’t. It’s a measure of a decent person, if they’re decent to those working to make their days better.

Suspicious grey eyes slice Jaime into pieces before the girl with her punk-rebellion striped tights and cut off denim shorts gives Brienne an almost hero-worshipping tiny smile.

Behind the counter the Bolton kid does something murderous with the whirry grinding machine of death to some innocent coffee beans.

When Brienne smiles, broad and delighted and uncaring, she’s bloody lovely. Not beautiful, not in the way of Cersei, or Daenerys Targaryen, or Sansa Stark. She’s more genuine than that; her crooked nose, the tiny laughter lines around her astonishing eyes, how she doesn’t care what she looks like. No one is as wonderful to wake up next to. Cersei always got up half an hour before Jaime woke so she could put a fresh face on, and he’s not slept with anyone else apart from the two most different women in the whole of Westeros. 

Her warmth and goodness lights her face, and to Jaime, who is aware of his own good looks but doesn’t particularly give a shit about them, she glows. There’s a song that he heard once, about perfect imperfections. It sums Brienne up, romantic ballad of a woman that she is. 

“Bri?”

“Yes?” She smiles at him, pushes her glasses up her long awkward nose with a broad fingertip.

She waits, head slightly cocked to one side.

“Bronn’s a pervert, and was telling me about this new website,” he starts idly, heart thudding in his chest like a military tattoo. “Want to have a look and laugh at it with me?”

That. Was unexpected.

He was going to ask her to move in. Shit. Why the Seven hells did he just say-? Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. Brazen it out, then. He grins, as slick and charming and false as he ever does to those who aren’t Brienne or his closer associates.

Brienne’s barely perceptible eyebrows arch.

“Jaime. I know you too well. You’re asking something else.”

Of course she does. She picks up on posture, and body tension, all those things people who don’t have a background in physiotherapy tend to ignore. Bloody hells. 

“I just thought we could get something, have a little fun-”

“Am I not…?”

“Shit. No. Brienne.” Her smile turns from amused to weirdly plasticised, and Jaime reaches out with his stump, trying to grab her hand with fingers that no longer exist. “No, it’s nothing. It’s incredible. You’re incredible. There’s nothing wrong at all on that part. Damn it, whenever I see you naked I could do pole vault without an actual pole. I just.”

Those sapphire eyes, wide and guileless and lovely, break him. Jaime groans, embarrassment burning his gut. With Cersei they just fucked. Against walls, on beds, sometimes in hot tubs. Wherever she wanted, Jaime going along with anything his stepsister desired. She’d always been vastly more experienced, which him being a little bit stupid had put down to women’s intuition. Now he knows that she’d been shagging half of King’s Landing, male and female, and that his monogamy and loyalty meant sod all in the grand scheme of Cersei’s Orgasms. Their sex life had been furtive and frantic, hidden away in dark corners and quite terrifying for Jaime, though Cersei seemed to get off on the possibility of getting caught.

Having only slept with two people he thought himself quite innocent in the ways of sex. Most men his age would have sown their wild oats years before, but being dangled on a leash by Cersei meant that he devoted everything to her when she saw him as nothing but a useful conquest who would defend her beyond reason because Jaime loved her. 

He’s not like Bronn, the shagmeister extrordinaire, or Varys who takes various portly hairy gentlemen back to his palace like apartment, or Tyrion who makes his way through most of the women of King’s Landing, fallen and otherwise. Even if Cersei hadn’t snagged Jaime when they were so young he’d have never slept around; sex, for Jaime, is an expression of love. When he makes love to Brienne, he puts his all into it - mind, heart, soul. 

As does she.

For two people who are disparate they’re oddly similar sometimes. A certain sense of ideal, and chivalry, though borne from differing circumstances. Before Brienne Jaime seemed the chivalrous knight to many, so charmingly handsome and quick with his tongue, but underneath he quietly churned, hated, rotted. 

Brienne made Jaime want to improve himself, firstly from respect for her own decency and then because he desperately wanted to be worthy of her.

“I like it when you shove me down, when you out wrestle me,” he begins, the truth finally cracking his already crumbling facade. Finding it impossible to look at his girlfriend, he crosses his arms, aware his body language screams defensiveness. “I’d kind of like it if you took your prize for winning.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

Shit. 

“Took. Your prize.”

A shake of Brienne’s blonde head, caught from the corner of his eye.

“Took your prize. Me. Took me.” Desperation laces down his words. 

“Fuck him like the pretty princess he is,” comes a most unwelcome voice as Loras Tyrell grins broadly at them. How someone can look that goods dressed as the Elf on the Shelf Jaime doesn’t know. Bastard.

“He wants to be buggered senseless, and you’ve not come to me and Renly, babe?”

“Fuck off, Loras!”

“Tyrion told Bronn who told Margaery who told me,” the utter bastard says, eyes sparkling wiith usual Tyrell deviousness. “Strap-on, hmm?”

The most disconcerting part of full body blushing is when your scalp starts sweating uncomfortably. 

“Oh.” At least Brienne goes bright pink as well, her wide mouth opening like that of a guppy. “Right.”

“Straight people are too complicated,” Loras trills. He gathers their empty mugs, smugness and amusement dripping from every pore, and whisks the crockery away into the kitchen, leaving Brienne and Jaime just staring at each other.

“So you want me to-” Brienne bites at her lip. “Take you.”

Jaime nods, the lump in his throat suffocating.

“You want me to wrestle you into submission, and then bend you over?”

Another nod. A clicking sort of sound as the image of being bent over his father’s beautiful old Valyrian era desk comes to mind. 

She leans forward, their noses almost touching, and the colour in her cheeks seems rather hectic, feverish. “We could have a go? I-I mean, I don’t mind having a go.”

“Shit. Bri.”

Rough fingers slide into his, lacing their hands together.

“I wouldn’t mind fucking you, Jaime. I think I'd really quite like to.”

Oh shit. She’s going for it?

As one they stand, Brienne fumbling for her phone.

“What you looking for?” he asks, pitchy and breathy voiced.

“The nearest shop that might sell something.”

 

********************************************************************

 

“Why this shop? Of all the shops in all the world-?”

“Shhh. He might see us,” Brienne hisses. She’s trying to make herself look less conspicuous which, when you’re a leggy Amazon with muscles from here to eternity and the most beautiful eyes in Westeros, doesn’t exactly work. They’re both bent kneed and creeping about the aisles when a wolf whistle rends the air behind them.

Theon beams at them. He’s holding an inflatable sheep in one arm and something Jaime can’t quite work out in the other. Whatever the item is, it gleams in a disconcerting manner, and has about a thousand rings embedded in leather straps. 

“Can I interest you in the gate of the Seven?” he asks chirpily while shaking the contraption cheerfully. So cheerfully that he’s definitely been snorting something. The Kraken Awakes, as he and his sister have called their shop of smut, doubles as one of the best places to get drugs in King’s Landing according to Tyrion.

“Go away, Theon!”

“You can’t come into my shop and not need advice? You’re so innocent, you two, and here you are, like, totally in my shop, and I’m going to sell you so much good shit that you’ll be coming for days!” 

Brienne straightens, her thighs rock solid in her jeans, and she crosses her arms across her chest. All she does is tilt her head, raise her eyebrows, and give a teacher-like stare of disapproval.

Theon, who might be off his face most of the time but isn’t stupid, squeaks and retreats with a shriek of, “I’ll be at the counter when you need me bye!”

“Horrible little shit.”

“What do you expect with a family like his,” Brienne points out far too sensibly for Jaime, so he ends up sulking at her decency as they wander up and down the endless aisles of the largest sex store this side of the Iron Islands. Every price sticker has the shop mascot, a large purple cartoon squid drawn up by Asha Greyjoy’s Dornish girlfriend. He’d hoped it’d be Asha there, rather than Theon, but the luck of the draw never quite falls for Jaime. If it had he’d have met Brienne years ago, and Cersei wouldn’t have been involved in his life, and he’d still have a full set of working hands. 

“What is half this stuff, anyway?” He pokes a large rubber fist with his own rubber fist, realises somewhat belated, stares at the prosthetic, and wonders which of his various perverted friends had various perverted fantasies about fisting.

“I have no idea.” There’s a sort of nervous energy about Brienne, a coltish quality as she moves. Her eyes flit from item to item, sliding off some, lingering upon others.; Jaime takes mental notes. Sevenmass and name day presents, right there, for both of them to enjoy. Her broad fingers brush a chainmail bikini, and he can’t quite work out whether it’s for her (Gods) or him (double Gods) and he’s suddenly in Damsel in Distress fantasies where strapons feature hugely. He’s at the top of a tower in Winterfell, Cersei’s threatening him, and then Brienne comes crashing in dressed like Red Sonja and claims her prize there and then after pushing bloody Cersei out of the window.

Jaime grabs a handy shopping basket and hides any obvious excitement behind lurid purple plastic.

“Jaime?”

“Mmm?” And back in the room. Brienne’s on her knees (shit) and examining a tangle of some sort of strappy leather harnesses.

“Which one do you think?” She looks up, earnestly wanting his approval, and his heart judders.

“You’re the one wearing it.”

“Would this one chafe?” She rubs her fingers along nylon.

“Possibly. What about the leather one?”

Snagging it from the pile of harnesses, she straightens up and smooths the straps so they lie flat. The leather has a strange sort of sheen to it, almost an oily deep blue like the sky at twilight, strong and heavy and supple. 

“That one’s nice,” he squeaks as the air escapes from his lungs. 

Brienne looks at him, then bites her lip trying not to grin.

 

********************************************************************

 

“Is this one too big?”

“What is too big in these sorts of things?”

“I read that starting small is a good-”

“...wench. When have you been researching? We talked about this forty minutes ago, and not before, unless?”

“...shut up, Jaime.”

“Gods, I love making you go that colour pink. So then, Ms Tarth, have you been having fantasies about shagging me senseless before today then? Hmm?”

“Jaime!”

“You have, haven’t you?”

“...”

“We should do one of those online tests where we can discover each other’s sick fantasies.”

“...!”

“Yours are, in order; me; strap-ons-”

“If you’re not careful, this won’t be going where you want it to go. It’ll be going in your mouth to shut you up!”

“Fancy looking at the ball gags? Oh look, you can get one shaped like a cock! And this. This is great. You can take a cast of my cock with this. Maybe we should, then you can fuck me with my own cock?”

“Jaime Lannister! Only you would be so vain.”

“I have the best cock. It’s beautiful. If there were a beauty competition for penises, I’d win.”

“I’ve seen better.”

“...when?!”

She sniffs, picks up a sapphire blue rubber dildo and examines it. “Tyrion.”

“...when’ve you seen Tyrion’s cock?!”

“Margaery sent me a GIF.”

“Shit.”

“I did wonder why Bronn calls him Tripod.”

“You can stop now.”

“Margaery says he can play croquet with-”

Jaime does the only thing he can do. He puts his fingers in his ears and chants ‘lalala’ very loudly until he sees she’s stopped giggling at him.

 

********************************************************************

 

How the dildo attaches to the harness is a mystery, and Brienne complains that they’ve not included any instructions. Oh Wench, so literally by the book sometimes. When she’s gone to IKEA she lays all the parts of whatever random piece of furniture she’s bought out neatly, reads the booklet thoroughly, methodically building. No wonder her and Stannis Baratheon get on peculiarly well; they’re both oddly anal about things being Proper and Right.

Jaime merely lounges on the bed and enjoys the view with his arms tucked behind his head. He’s perfectly aware that this position shows the nicely toned muscles of his belly and thighs, not overly bulky like some Clegane he could mention, how he maintains his physique even if he lost his hand because of Cersei.

Brienne glares at him as she fiddles about with her crotch.

“You could help,” she points out, a thrum of indignation making her usually low pitched alto climb the octave.

“I could. I really could. I’m just enjoying watching you rummaging between your legs.”

She weighs the sapphire dildo with one hand, narrows her eyes, and whacks him across the shin with the rubbery appendage.

“Ow!”

“You deserved that.”

“How will I explain the bruise?!”

“Tell them that you were a very naughty boy, or something...ah!” Another twist of her wrist, and the dildo clicks into place. It’s the sort with the part that also inserts into the giver as well as the taker, ridged along the nub for her pleasure, and how Brienne’s expression switches from grumpy to wide-eyed is utterly delicious.

Even when she’s standing there with a big rubber hard-on, midnight blue kid leather webbed around her powerful hips, and about to bugger him senseless? She’s innocent. Nothing shatters her essential inner strength, her Maiden-sweetness. Every debauched thing they’ve ever done (not much, but maybe after this they will be more experimental in the bedroom?) doesn’t leave that mark. You could watch Brienne walk down a street and never think she’s had a cock in her mouth. And she has. Quite often.

She watches him, hands on her hips.

“Come here.” He holds out his arm, prosthetic taken off for this, and Brienne steps forward in her oddly light way, in the way she moves when she’s about to fight or fence. Rough fingers stroke calluses over scar tissue before the bed dips and she’s kneeling next to him with the obscene cock jutting high and true.

Beautiful. Absolutely fucking lovely.

“The usual position is doggy,” Brienne breathes and Jaime realises every movement presses the rubber against her, teasing. “But your arm, so-?”

“I can brace on my elbows.” He twists over onto his front, draws his legs up under him and demonstrates.

How odd that being like this, utterly naked, can feel both liberating and so very naked? Do women always feel so open when they’re about to be fucked? Jaime licks his lips in a sudden fit of nerves, presses his cheek to the soft cotton of the duvet cover.

“Jaime,” and that voice caresses so caringly as her hand strokes along the ridges of his spine from nape to arse. “You might not carry my weight like that. I don’t want to be on top of you, and collapse, and injure you. And,” and she turns even pinker, “I can’t really kiss you like that.”

“You and your romantic streak, wench.” To be fucked so hard and so well that he collapses onto the bed? Great. To be fucked so hard that he collapses and Brienne’s inexperience causes him a mischief, meaning no more wearing that beautiful blue harness and being the one dominating him with her glorious body? Bad. No. Wrong.

Anyway, Bronn would have an absolute field day mocking him for injuries caused by buggery.

Maybe she’s also right about his stamina. Jaime’s approaching forty, he’s lost a hand and that vigor that he once had. Ten years ago he could have held her up against a wall while they had sex but now? With grey hairs flecking his beard and sideburns and age sneaking up more rapidly than could have been expected? He looked in the mirror two years ago and saw a middle-aged man rather than the golden youth he once was. He looked in a mirror and realised, all at once, that he wasn’t infallible. Gods really could age and wither. They could lose hands.

“Fine,” he says and manages to keep his tone light. “Just for the kisses. I could hold us both up for hours as you screw my brains out.” A lie, and one they both know is a lie, but what is Jaime without his bravado?

“What brains?” she replies automatically, then snorts in laughter. The action wrinkles her battered nose adorably and, yet again, Jaime wonders at her youth. 

Her youth keeps him young, and her sense keeps him grounded. 

When he’s comfortably on his back, with a pillow stuffed under his hips, Brienne grabs the lube - silicone safe, thanks Varys - and clicks the top open. The stuff glistens as she smears some onto her fingers, more than some, rather a lot to be perfectly honest, which is fine by him.

“Try and relax,” she says, and Jaime bites his lip in amusement at how much she sounds like a nurse. Of course then his mind spins away like a skipping stone with ideas of Brienne in scrubs or one of those old-fashioned matron dresses, and prostate examinations where she just milks him to climax without touching his cock.

Shit.

Cold.

“Sorry.” 

“No, you’re fine. I’m relaxing,” he says with gritted teeth.

Such a weird sensation. Jaime’s had the usual check ups from his doctor which have always been embarrassingly revolting. Leaning against a medical bed with Dr Tarly’s fat little finger wriggling around inside him never created any sort of interest whatsoever. Part of him floods with worry about how he might not enjoy this fantasy, that he should have kept it all in his head. What happens if Brienne buggers him and he doesn’t enjoy it? Will she think it’s her fault? 

Probably. 

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Fuck it.

Jaime goes up on his elbows, hair falling across his nose. “If it’s easier, I can do the fingering?”

Something darkens in Brienne’s expression, something that can only be described as abject and fascinated hunger.

Well then.

“Would you like to watch me?” he asks, lowering his voice so it’s almost a whisper. “Want to see me prepare myself for your cock?”

“Jaime-”

Hells. Jaime loves watching Brienne masturbate for him, her long strong fingers deft on her flesh. He loves watching her expression as she plays with her clit, parts herself and shows what no other man has had the privilege of seeing. For a few months after they got together that was all they did; physical pleasure, demonstrations of what they both enjoyed. Mutual sessions where they curled together with their foreheads pressed close, wrists bumping awkwardly as Jaime learned how to use his left hand and Brienne, for the first time in her life, learned how her body truly responded when another was with her.

“Want to see me finger myself open so you can climb on top of me and fuck me, wench? Like you do when I’m fucking you?”

She stared, ripe lips parted and her breath audible, before Brienne buried her cheek against his thigh. “I-I would like that. You don’t know what...just. I love you. I don’t want to do this wrong.”

“You’ll never do it wrong. I’ll teach you.” Like he had when they first fell into bed together. How to wrap her hand about his cock. How to breathe through her nose as she sucked him off. How to pin him down and writhe on top of him as she used him for her pleasure and without caring what she looked like with her scars, her muscled androgynous body. How to push inhibition away and give everything, like Jaime gave, because they loved each other. Trusted each other.

“I like being taught.” Lips brush against the skin of his leg, then, Gods fucking dammit, a suggestion of teeth. Those lovely blue eyes never look away from his, and Brienne has his heart hammering, his cock twitching.

Jaime has to pull back then, to kick his way up the bed so he’s leaning against the headboard. With explicit slowness he spreads his thighs and exposes everything to Brienne’s hungry gaze, running his hand down the muscles of his belly, the vee of his groin, skirting his cock and balls to lightly prod behind.

He’s slick there from lube and a touch of excited sweat, wet enough to probe a little and feel the sizzle of nerve endings from tightness and a growing anticipation. No, he’s not nervous now, not any more. Topping from the bottom, Varys would say as he can’t stop a tiny sigh escaping from his mouth.

“Can you lube my fingers? I’d do it, but I’d have to use my teeth on the cap.”

She does so, and Jaime’s perversely thrilled to see how Brienne’s hand shakes, just minutely.

The first finger presses home quite easily, though the angle proves strange. Having never done this with his left hand Jaime finds muscles he’s forgotten he has stretching in his forearm, and Brienne crawls closer, her cock hypnotic like a metronome between her strong thighs, wonder and lust painting her lovely/ugly face.

“Are you okay?” she checks, rough voiced.

“Of course.” For a moment he brushes that spot with his finger and has to close his eyes as sensation sizzles through him. “Shit.”

“What? Are you-?”

“Prostate,” Jaime grinds out, muscles tensing in his belly. His cock twitches, something Brienne finds hilarious when they’re just lounging about his bedroom in the nude. How he makes his genitalia dance she can’t quite grasp, but he tries to put it into the context of Kegel exercises. Cersei was always doing them, horrified that producing three kids through her vagina had wrecked her forever.

Don’t think of Cersei. Not now.

Warm hands smooth up his thighs, from buttock to behind his knees. 

She kisses him once more, open mouthed, resting her cheek against his kneecap.

“It’s fascinating,” she manages. The clever wench curls a leg under her, heel just about between her own thighs. 

She flexes her hips in time with his hand, now with his index and middle fingers spearing deep, opening him, and Jaime can’t deal with this much longer. Brienne, basically masturbating herself on the protrusion of the dildo that’s about to be buried deep in him, lips parted, lovely eyes hooded and hungry.

It’s all wonderful until the pins and needles start in his fingers, swiftly making their way to his wrist. 

Shit. Shit shit shit.

“Will you just come here and bugger me senseless, wench?” Gods, he sounds wanton, even to his own ears. Needy and whiny and desperate. If he were with another, and not with Brienne, embarrassment would have him break away, try and return to the usual Jaime, the one that protects himself with a shell of sarcastic indifference. With Brienne? All strips away to reveal his raw inner parts, bleeding and loving and good in turn.

Jaime pulls his hand back, trying to get life into the lube-smeared mess of skin and tendon, and he’s aching for it now, feeling empty. Possibly he’s not given himself enough time to get used to penetration. Perhaps he’s not quite there yet and entry will be quite sore. Maybe maybe maybe?

Shit. He needs this.

Brienne licks at her lips, saliva glistening as she reaches for the lubricant. To his eternal thankfulness she’s once again rather heavy with the use, layering her rubber cock with about half the tube, before she’s between his legs, her fingers soothing, massaging, at his pelvis.

“If you need me to stop, tell me, and I’ll stop.”

“Just do it.”

Another of those adorable bites of her lips, then she’s parting his cheeks with loving care, the bluntness slithers over him before...there.

Shit.

It stings a little, he’s not stretched enough - Jaime was right - but how Brienne looks as she looms over him proves the sweetest, most arousing of balms. She’s pink as ever, hair sticking to her forehead and teeth worrying the tip of her tongue as she concentrates and obviously holds herself back, inching into him as Jaime moans in her ear, kisses her throat, wraps his maimed arm about her shoulders to have her take him completely.

Inch by inch, so slow and careful, she finally bottoms out with a tiny cry as their public hair mingles.

“There. Wow.” Now she’s actually in, and there’s no screaming, bleeding, swearing, or anything of the sort, Brienne relaxes against him. Rigidity flows from her muscles straight into his rather bemused but frisky cock, and every tiny movement she makes sets the synapses ablaze. 

“You okay?”

Jaime kisses her shoulder. He feels like crying. 

“Mhm. You?”

“I’m okay. Good. Can I start moving?”

He contemplates, then nods. “Just go slow for a bit before you pound me.”

“Me, go gentle on you? When’ve I ever done that?” However strong her words Brienne’s movement proves them a lie. Resting on her elbows, caging Jaime in with her body, she experiments with pulling back a little, then forward.

“It’s rubbing against me.”

“Is that all lube, or are you that wet?” He’s answered by Brienne burying her face in his neck, her skin burning against his, and he laughs, stroking his messy hand through her hair. She doesn’t seem to care. Neither of them care. Just that slow rocking of hips, a sea-swell of fucking, that builds and builds imperceptibly until she catches Jaime’s prostate, probably by accident, and he wails helplessly.

“There. Fuck!”

“I’ll try.” She’s panting now, skin slithering and wet against him, muscled abdomen sandwiching his aching cock between their bodies. “Gods, Jaime. This is-”

“Yes. Shit. Yes it is.”

Unlike anything. Better than anything. Almost as sweet as being buried in Brienne and making love on a lazy Seventh day afternoon. Utterly different, of course. Sweatier, and far stickier, and he’s usually the one on top as Brienne doesn’t want to hurt him with her weight sometimes when she’s having her dysmorphic moments, and he’s never, ever, in his entire life taken anyone like this, but it’s wonderful, and everything shrinks down, down, to the determined thrusting, Brienne’s own hoarse moans, how she’s soft and hard and rough and smooth and he loves her so much that when his mind goes white and he’s coming all he can do is tell her that he loves her just her just Brienne oh fuck shit right there love you wench-

 

********************************************************************

 

“I’ll last longer next time,” he promises as Brienne mops around them with the item they laughingly refer to as the ‘sex towel’. Out it comes every time, always freshly laundered and stashed in the chest of drawers, and does its civic duty. This time the poor thing ends up utterly destroyed and she takes it out to the ensuite and throws it in the sink with some very hot water in the vain hope that it might be rescued.

“Next time?” She pokes him until he can finally bear to stand, wobbly as a new foal on legs that don’t quite work, and they drag the equally destroyed sheets off the bed. “Aren’t you glad I bought you that mattress protector?”

“Next time,” Jaime promises, waving his stump while trying to get to grips with the elasticated sheet corners on his side, “I’ll come when you do.”

Brienne fixes him with an exhausted, shagged out, frustratedly loving look. It suits her. Having her a little mad at him makes everything so much more exciting in his life. They fought horribly before Jaime realised that the entire six months before they finally gave in and started dating was merely foreplay. Foreplay between two people who once hated each other but then, slowly, grew to know and understand the other, gathering buckets of mutual respect along the way.

Tyrion, of course, won the betting pool between their friends of when they’d actually fuck.

It’s never been fucking.

Oh yes, sometimes it feels like it. When Jaime and Brienne are antsy at each other, snarking and sniping, his sarcasm deflected by her steely looks. When they’re almost unable to stop themselves just going in an alleyway like teenagers, but logistically that’d be really difficult as Brienne’s all legs and he’d need to find a small box. When they tear at clothes, bites glowing red on freckled skin, or golden flesh, fingernails draw scarlet lines along arse cheeks or ribs. When they fight in the sitting room, using all their abilities, and the victor gets to be on top as prize.

Even then.

Never fucking. Always love.


End file.
